Guardsman

by Pam Uphoff

  “How about Badlands?”

  Two of the new guys waved. “A little farming, a lot of mining. Even counting the mine workers, it’s the smallest colony. Everyone’s dirt poor, unless they’re government employees or upper ranked company officials.”

  The second guy chimed in, “I think Oscu is one of the farmers. I suspect he’s running just to raise awareness of how little the government cares about the colonies.”

  “Find out which group he belongs to, see if he’s made any speeches, or written anything.” Rael looked at her notes. “’Beautiful Flower’ has been in local Hawaiian politics for decades, and a couple of years ago added the whole Pacific rim to her attempts to influence people. She hasn’t held any government positions the last two years. Does anyone have any personal experience with her?”

  The princess she’d called Save, lifted her hand. “I know Toad. Nice enough, but tedious about politics. So if you need a volunteer for Beautiful Flower, I’ll take her.”

  Rael frowned at her comp. “I have Toag with a G.”

  “Yeah, but, well, sometimes the nicknames are worse than the original.”

  “I see. So Mick, Toag is all yours.” She grimaced. “Ycrw and Insa are going to be challenging. Any volunteers?”

  Izzo would be so easy . . . Lucky Dave shrugged. “I’ve been watching the Insane one yelling at crowds for more than a year. I’ll take him.”

  Rael nodded. “Good luck, and yell for help if needed. I’ve asked for more people mainly so I could double-team those two.”

  Idlo raised his hand. “I’ll take the Crow. I’m snobby enough that he won’t write me off as too low class to listen to.”

  Lucky Dave blinked. That’s a degree of self-knowledge I hadn’t expected.

  “Good.” Rael eyed her comp, and parceled them out.

  Five and half months to the Primaries, then another five and a half months . . . and we’ll find out who will be our president for the next five years.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Relatives

  15 Muharram 1415

  Izzo looked up as Wizzy—Princess Gewz—walked in. His assigned princess had returned from Makkah just in time to whip his quickly ballooning staff into shape.

  “Rael wants to talk to you.”

  “Rael? Put her on the speaker.”

  They were alone in the back office of Campaign Central, the third floor of a smallish ten story office building. At five in the morning, his staff was sensibly not here yet.

  “Izzo, I’ve got a late arriving Ex Priest, oldest we’ve seen yet.”

  Izzo raised his eyebrows at Rael’s tone. Boggled? Amused? Both?

  “Name of Izpo Withione Alcairo, son of Izgo, older brother Izmo, younger Igzi.”

  Izzo was nodding. “Yep, that’s my uncle. Well, one of them.” He looked over at Wizzy. “Do I have anything this afternoon?”

  “Informal staff meeting for lunch. Driving to Rome to meet the Regional Councilors?”

  “Right. Rael, I’ll be there in half an hour. Wiz? If I’m not back for lunch, start without me. Make a list of things I need to decide on, prioritize it.”

  “Right, Boss.”

  ***

  “I kept trying to talk my brother into leaving . . . and finally admitted it wasn’t going to happen.”

  Izzo eyed the little old man. “Well, your younger brother lives on Homestead—he’s a wildlife biologist—most of the time. But he’s been traveling a lot lately, helping the colonists on Lucky Thirteen, Limbo, and Agony, as well as some of the new settlements that aren’t part of any other polity—Tyrant and Refuge.

  “He’ll be delighted to meet you, and probably haul you off and show you everything you’ve missed over the last . . . century? One!”

  “I’m a hundred and forty-seven. I won’t say I’ve missed life, but I have missed the life I might have had. But I’ve lived to see the end of an era, to see the One Mind stop.”

  Izzo nodded. “I’ve met your alternate self, from the Whirlpool One. He’s settled on Tyrant, married and they’re expecting their second child, well, his first, her second. So perhaps you should consider that your life could divert back toward that life you might have had.”

  “What an interesting idea. I shall have to consider it. “ The old man eyed him. “Rael tells me you’re running for President? Do you need a statistician? Or an accountant? I’ve done both for the One.”

  Izzo grinned. “I’ve got some party people who set up the fundraising end of things, and yes, I do happen to need an accountant. On the other hand, I’ve got insufficient and nearly untrained people reading my mail to see what people are most concerned with. Umm, Dad always refers to you as ‘my brother Zipo’ . . .”

  The ex-priest laughed. “I’d forgotten that! Excellent. I shall be your Uncle Zipo.”

  ***

  Back at campaign headquarters, Izzo found the staff hard at work, and expanded once again. With a few familiar faces.

  “Shouldn’t you two be in school? Even if you’re not attending in person?”

  Arno grinned. “Extra credit for taking an active part in a presidential campaign. But we’re just part time. I’m analyzing your mail so you can write, or have someone write, more specific responses to questions they have.”

  “And I’m diagramming the ministries, to see which ones do what things, and which of them could, and possibly should, be shifted to Regional, Division, or District levels.” Ryol had an outline on her comp . . . “I started with the official chart, and now I’m going through the subministeries.”

  Izzo felt a chill. I have seventeen-year-olds organizing my mail? Telling me what functions I should shift away from the Ministries?

  He swallowed and told himself they were just sifting the most basic data.

  Uncle Zipo leaned over Arno’s shoulder. “How are you sorting them?”

  “Well, I’m keeping a double list. One is individual issues; I’m counting the frequency of each. The second is a list of linked issues, that is, many letters have multiple issues, and I’m trying to see if there are many multi-issues that frequently show up together. And if perhaps a specific plan that dealt with related topics should be considered. Umm, for instance, leading the pack, the Empire’s debt, the annual deficit, the extras added to every spending bill, government employees’ primo perqs, and how the Regions are going to pay for any responsibilities they take over that are currently the Empire’s job.”

  Arno squirmed. “I thought maybe a list of the order things need to happen to achieve the desired end result would be useful.”

  “Arno . . . if you weren’t a high school kid, I’d hire you.”

  He flashed a grin. “Graduating in two months. I hope I’ll be accepted at the Directorate School, and if so I can work full time until the middle of Shaban.”

  Ryol nodded, and poked at her screen. “Surely they don’t make waste water treatment decisions at the empire level. There’s way too many variations in population density, water supply, soil types, climate, and, and . . .”

  Izzo nodded. “Yeah. Drives the remote farmers crazy to have to have—and pay for—the sorts of systems cities need. Keep highlighting the most obvious stuff.”

  A chuckle from Uncle Zipo. “Got a pair of smart ones. Is your whole staff like this?”

  Izzo was saved from having to admit that no, most of them were just earnest office workers, by the arrival of Wizzy.

  “Oh! You are so definitely Izzo’s uncle!” She stuck a hand out. “Princess Gews, please call me Wiz. Izzo’s note said you were an accountant? Let me show you what we have set up . . .”

  Izzo looked back at Ryol’s sheets. “That’s exactly what I need. Dig as deeply as you can.”

  A glance at Arno’s . . . “I guess I’d better start writing.”

  ***

  Once Izzo had written a number of responses to various issues, the volunteers organized the sending of appropriate replies, and kept up with the statistics—now sorted geographically—so he knew how to shade
his stump speech according to local interests. Exle and his Party staff were impressed with the items Izzo was willing to shift to the regions and boggled by how far down he thought some responsibilities should be. Uncle Zipo juggled numbers and gave him a daily synopsis. He turned his travel and speaking arrangement over to Xiat. Wiz ran the office.

  Advertisements on screen, on Grid, getting on the news as often as possible.

  So far it was working.

  Izzo emphasized their position in the Multiverse, the need for a modern, open, tolerant outlook. Ugpw emphasized the need to shift responsibilities to Region and Division. Izzo agreed, cautioning against both the regions becoming isolated from each other, or the colonies neglecting security as they opened gates to other worlds.

  “Unfortunately there are some very unsavory polities out there. We can extend the hand of friendship without inviting the Earth to attack, or the Helios to try another mass kidnapping event.”

  He had Foo running security with nine guards on rotating shifts, and more available when he travelled. Eqku—Echo—was the Agent assigned to him, the poor fool got all the threatening, nasty mail and had to analyze it for actual threat potential.

  He was a hit on Homestead, giving his speech in T!ectlk* with a grinning !Zolt translating it into English for the linguistically challenged. Couldn’t do it on Tall Trees or Vista, the other two Colonies with Natives, but he did a lot of small group discussions, with both natives and Colonists. Businesses. The impact that Corridors and permanent gates had had on their lives seemed at the forefront of all the groups on multiple continents. And the possibility of not having to go to the Empire Council for every micro-managed thing certainly appealed.

  “The Council’s going to fight giving away power. It’s not just a matter of electing a Federalist president. We need a strong showing in the council races—twenty percent of the Council is up for reelection every year, so we need to keep working to build up representation every single year. Regional elections shouldn’t be neglected, either, because with luck and hard work, they’ll be taking over those responsibilities.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The Rise and Fall of a Rabble Rouser

  19 Emre 1415

  Lucky Dave sidestepped and landed on the stranger’s toes. Flinched back just a bit as he yelled, grabbed him to steady him . . . and felt the weapon under his coat.

  Bloody Hell! Another one! The Fruitcake Magnet has done it again! I do not believe this.

  Dave took the laser out of the man’s hand as he drew it. So neatly it nearly looked like the man handed it to him.

  “That’s better. You know, Insa tends to get excited and say things he didn’t actually mean, so whether you are planning to kill him, or think you will help him by getting rid of a rival . . . don’t do it. Just . . . don’t.”

  As he’d come to expect, this idiot—like those before him—swung a fist, and Dave blocked and punched him, bending him over retching and gasping for breath.

  Icks and Ux trotted up and grabbed him by the arms and hauled him off. A day in the local jail for psychiatric evaluation would do him a world of good.

  Dave sighed and looked back to where the presidential candidate was scowling at him.

  Insa stalked down the steps. “I was not inciting him! I was just bitching about Izzo and his oh so egalitarian, I’ll go anywhere and everyone is my equal pigshit.”

  Dave shrugged. “But some people will take that as a hint. You have to be careful of your audience.”

  “Bah.” Insa stepped around him and out to the limo pulling up. Flunkies scurried to join him.

  Scar driving, another man riding shotgun, two cars escorting. Dammit, I hate not driving and I’m an analyst, dammit, not part of his guards. I probably don’t need to go along to see yet another mini riot while he preaches about how great Oners are.

  None-the-less they were two men short, with Ux and Icks dealing with the idiot. Dave trotted over to the guard detail, and got handed the keys to the lead car.

  :: Just straight down the One-Oh-One to the San Francisco corridor. :: Scar’s mental voice was clear and unworried. :: Go. ::

  Dave pulled out onto the street, turned right, merged left, onto the freeway . . . Slammed on the brakes and slewed the car so the truck cruising down the freeway shot past them before turning into a shrapnel laden fireball.

  How did they know we were coming?

  The limo thumped the side of the car hard, backed away . . . no room to turn, and temporarily blocked by traffic behind them. Dave had to throw himself against the door and get it open, the rear door wasn’t opening at all, and it was a tad warm on the other side. The heat from the burning remains of the truck was intense. What did they load it with?

  Dave jumped out and they all piled out behind him, climbing over the front seats . . .

  And staring as Insa bailed and bolted across the freeway.

  Dave ran after him, and saw the problem. The school bus must have been in the far left lane, and a bit back of the truck bomb. The blast had crammed it hard into the center barrier, this side blackened, flaming debris under it. Sticking to the side of it.

  Napalm, the Prophets called it . . .

  Insa grabbed the release bar on the back of the bus and screamed in pain, flinching back.

  Heat is power.

  Dave held both hands out and pulled power. Grabbed the bar, lifted and pulled. The other guards were right behind him, pulling out screaming, crying children.

  Dave jumped up and balanced on the highway divider, ran halfway up the bus and concentrated on a tiny little slice, and removed a whole window assembly. Reached in and grabbed a kid trying to crowd into the center aisle of the bus, pulled him out. Other kids followed. Traffic had stopped on the far side of the highway, multiple collisions . . .

  Dave ran up almost to the front and cut out another window. But this time he had to climb through and so very carefully pick up injured, dazed children and hand them out . . . and children with burns, from the shattered windows on the far side. Glass cuts, head wounds . . . there were lots of people helping now. He spotted Rael’s red hair, a tall man in a sparkly tuxedo, Major Eppa, air cars whisking injured children away . . .

  They emptied the bus as the firefighters lost the battle and the gas tank burst, a flood of fire that rose and engulfed the bus.

  Three covered forms on the roadway, two small, one large.

  Insa sitting on the road, rocking a dead child, tears streaming down his face.

  The guards standing around him looked helpless. Dave knelt beside him.

  “Sir . . .”

  “I know. I felt her die.”

  Dave looked at the horribly burned child. She must have had her window open.

  He looked around . . . the last children were being removed, the cars stuck behind the explosion were backing up and being sent on their way. Just a few witnesses talking to the very large number of Black Horse Guards, and the few city police who’d gotten through what was probably a monumental traffic jam.

  “Let her go now, Insa. Come and sit down over here. We’re going to be talking to the detectives for hours, we might as well let everyone else do their jobs.”

  And this is only the primaries. It’s going to get really nasty before Ramadan.

  ***

  “Why did I do that?”

  Lucky Dave looked over at Insa, who was looking at his gauze wrapped hands.

  “You guys would have gotten them all out safely, probably faster, without me being in the way.”

  Dave blinked. “No, we wouldn’t have.”

  Insa jerked around and stared at him. A policeman walking past stopped and turned.

  “I didn’t even see the bus, I was focused on looking for a follow up threat, and getting you to somewhere safe.” Dave glanced toward the burned out wrecks. The freeway’s going to be closed for the investigation for the rest of the day. “The four people who died were critically injured in the initial blast. Because you spotted them, and instantl
y ran to help, we were able to get the rest of the kids out before the secondary fires flared up. Before the bus’s gas tank burst.”

  Insa dropped his hands and stared into space. “Damn Ycrw. And you know damn well there won’t be a speck of proof.”

  “Yeah. Even if they trace the truck, the explosives . . . there will be layers of blind errand runners.” Dave winced. “And don’t discount the War Party or the Isolationists. They may have figured to eliminate both of you. You dead, Ycrw suspected of brutal murder.”

  Insa was staring at the ground, probably not seeing much of anything. “A year ago it seemed so clear and obvious. I was angry and everyone agreed with me. Except it was really just the few people around me. I didn’t see anyone else. Even the crowds . . . just warm bodies I could whip into a frenzy, to reinforce what was so obviously right.”

  He swallowed. “I thought Crow was good—a boring speaker, no human touch at all—but his ideas were sound. Or I thought so, then. Since he declared for himself, I’ve gone back and read his speeches. And wondering how I missed the way he talked about people.”

  He hung his head. “At least I saw people I liked. People I disliked. People I could use. I never saw things.”

  Eventually they were sent away, and after three days of no campaigning, Insa braced his shoulders and scheduled an interview.

  ***

  Dave watched from the sidelines.

  The cute blonde hostess was smiling while she expertly prodded Insa into saying a lot more than he’d intended.

  “No. ‘Equal Rights’ doesn’t mean ‘everyone is the same.’ I’m more magically strong than most people, I’m more intelligent than most people.” Insa flashed a grin at the closeup camera. “Better looking too. But. We are all citizens of the Empire, all equal before the law, and all endowed with the civil rights that the Prophets enumerated.”